The lens capturing ache, a spot left to blind around nobody’s serial zipper. Afar while ignorant by her purpose a sigh rehearsed black blink the tune is closing the drumming aperture. Zoom aerially alongside sensation my mirror coldly awakening after rebellion shoots truth like arrow shorn of wings. Meanwhile a little closer my love carefully and hairy the machine makes appointment between moons and bus stops. Shift dimension because the rule has carved rust on laughter and soil drips sardines, hungry small animalcules and vulgar drunk remarks. The visitor FLASH awesome teeth while zones of legs remember the long overhaul and missionary status. Lately a fly meditates on the heavy scent of sums, mean chasms calibrating the here and now; an owl overflies the morning damned. The events captured logistically by nature’s circumference white underpants exposed within the thick fog of human greed. Sex wonderfully colored, centrally in the mind because a flower is pure in the mind better than an orgy of doubts sweating paradoxes. Buildings always poured with honey and served at midnight with a television smile. Mystically our school shrank from situation to circumstance to coincidence like fish, schools of fish diving deeper into unknown coordination with night above bowing as strange concave dark banana. The birds tiny church angels motes of dust leave individually one by one consciousness a door with the figure of a feminine sound. The animal buys a ticket to catharsis calmly the wine rhymes the trees are sharp silent sticks. The animal fenced in irony learns the catechism of turning on its own axis. The animal takes the arm of the herd expecting nothing less than the wave of feasting on echoes. The animal stores sunlight in its radio, tissues of right and wrong, the effort is its monastery. The animal against animal but bubbles merge with soap bubbles like families holding hands forever against the backdrop of mountains forever, terrible shadow-drenched mountains forever that rise toward the pinnacle and forever pierce the dead corpse of night with their tips of white melting gold, forever captured in ache.
Life is quite explicit.
Like a fly that lands
on a piece of paper.
Thought is quite intricate.
Like the Rorschach blot
a fly produces when smacked
on a piece of paper.
*The above expression
remains unclear to this
date. It is unknown
whether the author
intended it to be strictly
a metaphor or to be
taken literally in its
It has spurred a string
of speculation and debate
into warring camps.
Some claim that it
was written in a state
of utter stupor and therefore
must be regarded as an aberration
of the unconscious. Others
argue that that the author
has pierced through the veil
of language and has given
us direct access to
the core of meaning.
Leading figures in the field
of semiotics have given
popularity to the notion
that the expression transcends
the use of its symbols
and signifies nothing
Research into his biography
has only added enigmas
to the puzzle of the author’s
Until further discoveries
are made between the logical,
and aesthetic relations
and order of the words
can be given to the reader
as to the ultimate significance
of the author’s seemingly
were sitting on the ledge of a building
talking about the pursuit of happiness,
how every human action is motivated
by self-love and trying to reconcile
morality with a mechanistic view
of a universe, everywhere ruled
and determined by inflexible laws
the talk went on for some time
they would interject a few modern expressions
to avoid falling into a complete anachronistic conversation
reminiscent of the 18th century philosophes
then the one on the right said,
– What if we jump?
– there’d be a fall
– yeah, and then what?
– who knows
– do you think there’s consciousness after death?
– as much as you can find in the drunk man’s sleep
– should we jump? what stops us from finding out?
– fear, our loved ones, the desire to seek new experiences and store them in the insatiable coffins of memory. But mostly fear.
– if you could have anything in the world before you die, what would it be?
– another lifetime to figure that out
– do you often think of death?
– on rare special occasions, like funerals and that kind of thing
– do you find any consolation in the thought of death?
– yeah in the thought that death dissolves all suffering with the same intensity as life withheld happiness from the individual
– I’m going to jump
– I’ll take the stairs
He did not jump but was he really considering it? They decided to go home. As they walked together over the bridge they both noticed the sea was restless that day.
I have a street and no metaphor
a layer of moonlight but
This is a street and
not a metaphor
not a shivering slate of moonlight
I’ve seen my street bare without metap..
The street is cold without metaphor
drenched in the shudder of moonlight
This street is devoid of metaphor
a meaningless stretch of cold trembling
I have a street but without metaphor
even tho I’ve left a ripple on its moonlight
A street sleeps without metaphor
moonlight awake floating away like a trembling mist
these streets are meaningless without metaphor
the light of the moon is afraid but isn’t visibly shaking
A street has no meaning and cannot be a metaphor
because it’s drowning in the yellow of its moonlight
I walk upon a street and find no metaphor
half of its moonlight has been wasted on rats
This street has an absence of metaphor
because moonlight is nothing but the light of the moon
Upon a street I walk without a metaphor
all the while thinking that the moonlight
is the simile of a smile
The street is empty; empty of metaphor
only a light is seen and it’s not from the moon
A street is a place where nobody cares for metaphors
and the moonlight is a spot you leap over
Somehow this street lost its metaphor
but I found the moonlight tattooed on my skin
A street is no metaphor
and a poem is not moonlight
There like a bolt
like a stone amidst
a dust beyond
deep in shine
a pocket w/noon
and no shadow
a golden fury
into rivulets a feather
possibility’s a stream
he types ‘whiteness
merge with tear
and this earth
trickled like spark
the wind has a mouth
and the same questions
but resilient to heat
and the precarious nuisances of the jungle
tender but defiant
able to camouflage among
stones and clouds alike
its softness must be delicate
but decisive not necessarily static
as it can be allowed rigidity at times
equivalent to that of taut velvet
not too colorful nor flaunting
the impenetrability of black or white
capable of evaporating without dispersing
(i.e. losing its cohesion without sacrificing its wholeness)
different from the rest of its kind
without becoming an example of freak
it should waver at twilight at the risk
of turning ambiguous but never incomprehensible
its upper part magnificent
and evasive like the current of time in a dream
its lower part glorious and ubiquitous
like dawn in a desert’s sky
preferably sophisticated without being pompous
straightforward without being wholly divested of enigma
and existing mainly between
the eternal and the transient.